Chapter 1 - THE WORD THAT STOPPED THE RESTAURANT
The first time Roman Voss’s children spoke, the entire restaurant heard one word that should have been impossible.
“Mom.”
Forks froze halfway to mouths.
Wine glasses stopped in midair.
Near the kitchen doors, a busboy dropped three plates.
Nobody turned toward the crash.
Because three one-year-old children who had never spoken a clear word in their lives were pointing at a waitress in a stained black apron as though their hearts had recognized someone their minds could not possibly remember.
And the man standing beside them was Roman Voss.
The most feared crime boss in Chicago.
Pamela Hayes stood in the center of Bella Rosa Trattoria holding a tray of ice waters.
Her hands began shaking.
The restaurant smelled of garlic butter, espresso, red wine and money.
Old money.
River North money.
The kind of restaurant where politicians brought donors, lawyers brought people they did not want their wives meeting, and Roman Voss walked in without reservations because nobody was suicidal enough to tell him the restaurant was full.
Pamela had worked there eleven months.
Long enough to know exactly where management ranked her.
Near the bottom.
She was twenty-eight.
Plus-size.
Exhausted.
Warm brown eyes usually shadowed by too little sleep.
Dark hair twisted into a knot that began neat at four in the afternoon and looked like a hostage situation by midnight.
Some women wore grief in black dresses.
Pamela wore hers in the weight she had gained after losing her children.
In midnight meals.
In oversized sweatshirts.
In the exhaustion of surviving something she never understood.
Fourteen months earlier, Pamela had awakened inside St. Anselm Medical Center.
Her throat raw.
Her abdomen burning.
A nurse holding her hand.
The triplets did not survive, Miss Hayes.
Three children.
Two boys.
One girl.
Gone.
Pamela had hemorrhaged after an emergency delivery.
She remembered fluorescent lights.
Someone shouting about blood pressure.
Then darkness.
When she woke, there were no babies.
No tiny bodies placed against her chest.
No opportunity to say goodbye.
Three death certificates.
Theo Hayes.
Elias Hayes.
Mia Hayes.
Pamela had chosen the names while pregnant.
The hospital told her the babies had experienced catastrophic complications following premature delivery.
When Pamela asked for their bodies, a social worker showed her paperwork indicating she had consented to hospital-arranged cremation while heavily medicated.
Pamela did not remember signing.
She fought.
For two weeks.
Then a hospital attorney produced forms with her signature.
Pamela had no money.
No husband.
No wealthy family.
No attorney.
She eventually stopped fighting because grief took all the energy she had left.
Fourteen months later, she still had the secondhand crib in her apartment.
Empty.
Then Roman Voss entered Bella Rosa with a triple stroller.
Three babies.
Approximately the same age her children would have been.
Pamela tried not to look.
Then Paul Granger, her manager, shoved a tray into her hands.
“You.”
She sighed.
“Table twelve?”
“VIP booth.”
From the kitchen, Kelsey whispered:
“I’m not serving him.”
Another waitress shook her head.
“I have kids.”
Paul glared at Pamela.
“You embarrass me in front of Roman Voss, don’t bother clocking out.”
“My name is Pamela.”
“Your name is unemployed if you keep correcting me.”
Pamela took the tray.
A year earlier, Paul’s cruelty might have made her cry.
Now?
She had buried three children she never got to hold.
Men with expensive watches had lost much of their power to frighten her.
Roman sat in the back booth.
Charcoal suit.
Dark hair swept back.
Storm-gray eyes.
Stillness that felt more dangerous than movement.
Four men remained nearby.
His security.
One older than the rest had a scar through one eyebrow.
Donovan Pierce.
Pamela knew that because everyone working in expensive Chicago restaurants eventually learned which men belonged to Roman Voss.
The babies were screaming.
The first boy had thrown a stuffed bear.
The second was kicking both feet.
The little girl cried so violently her curls stuck to her cheeks.
Roman sat rigidly.
One hand against his temple.
And for one strange second, Pamela did not see the man people whispered about.
She saw a father who had not slept.
The bear landed beside her.
Pamela bent.
Picked it up.
“Well.”
Her voice softened automatically.
“That is a lot of thunder from three tiny storms.”
The first boy stopped crying.
Pamela froze.
Hazel eyes.
Huge.
Fixed on her.
The second boy hiccupped.
The girl lifted both hands.
Something inside Pamela hurt.
She placed the bear on the table.
“I’ll get your menus.”
She stepped back.
The first boy reached.
“Mom.”
Pamela stopped.
The second pointed.
“Mom. Mom.”
The little girl bounced in her seat.
“Mom!”
Pamela’s tray tilted.
Roman stood.
“What did you do?”
His voice was quiet.
Worse than shouting.
“Nothing.”
Pamela backed into another booth.
“I swear.”
The first baby cried harder.
“Mom!”
Pamela covered her mouth.
Her eyes burned.
“I’ve never seen them.”
Roman stared at her.
Not with anger anymore.
With something closer to fear.
Donovan stepped forward.
Roman said:
“Find out who she is.”
Pamela’s stomach dropped.
“Please don’t.”
Roman did not look away.
“What is your name?”
“Pamela Hayes.”
The babies reacted again.
Especially the girl.
“Mama!”
Roman’s face changed.
Paul hurried over.
“Mr. Voss, I apologize. Pamela isn’t one of our strongest—”
Roman looked at him.
Paul stopped.
“She’s been creating problems,” Paul added weakly.
Roman’s expression became colder.
“Touch her and you will regret it.”
Paul went silent.
Roman removed a black card from his jacket.
No logo.
Only a silver number.
He placed it on Pamela’s tray.
“You answer when I call.”
Pamela stared.
“I don’t understand.”
Roman looked at the three children reaching toward her.
“No.”
His voice lowered.
“Neither do I.”
Pamela finished the shift.
Barely.
At midnight, Paul cornered her near the bar.
“You made a scene.”
“The babies made a scene.”
“You think that matters?”
Pamela kept wiping the counter.
“You know who that was?”
“Yes.”
“And now he knows your name.”
“Apparently.”
Paul leaned closer.
“You stay away from people like that.”
Pamela looked at him.
“For once, Paul, I think we agree.”
Her phone rang.
Unknown number.
She stared.
Paul saw.
His face went pale.
“Answer it.”
Pamela almost laughed.
A minute earlier he wanted her away from Roman.
Power clarified priorities quickly.
She answered.
“Hello?”
Roman’s voice.
“Miss Hayes.”
Her body tightened.
“Yes?”
“I need you to come to my house tomorrow.”
“No.”
Silence.
Paul’s jaw dropped.
Roman said:
“Excuse me?”
“I don’t know you.”
“You served me dinner.”
“That is not knowing someone.”
Another silence.
Then, unexpectedly:
“Fair.”
Pamela almost dropped the phone.
“I need to ask you questions about the children.”
Pain moved through her.
“I can’t help you.”
“I think you can.”
“Why?”
Roman answered:
“Because Donovan found your hospital records.”
Pamela’s fingers tightened around the phone.
“What hospital records?”
“St. Anselm.”
The room tilted.
Roman continued:
“You gave birth to triplets fourteen months ago.”
Pamela could not speak.
Then:
“And my children were born fourteen months ago.”
Her knees weakened.
“No.”
“Miss Hayes—”
“No.”
She ended the call.
For several seconds, she stood completely still.
Then she reached into her apron.
Pulled out Roman’s business card.
And realized the man she had feared for less than five minutes might hold the answer to the question that had been destroying her for fourteen months.
May you like
Where were her babies?
---
